You arrive at spring training the same day as Carlton Fisk, and you are certain that at least one of you is glad to be here.
The merry little menagerie that is the White Sox is now all assembled for its annual disappointment, which is coming earlier and earlier since the insightful landlord, Jerry Reinsdorf, last squinted at the horizon and saw Point C.
What used to take until the middle of September to confirm is now coming in late July, that for reasons yet unclear, the Sox are mismatched for the task.
I blame the Sox directly for letting the World Series go to Canada.
To his credit, Reinsdorf has resisted changing anything important this year, like managers or broadcasters, reserving his meddling for those who least deserve it, such as the aforementioned Fisk.
Down the interstate, Nolan Ryan is being indulged, humored and fitted for the Hall of Fame. Across the orange groves, George Brett is, if not warmly welcomed back by Kansas City’s owner, not begrudged the privilege of leaving on his own terms.
Merely a few streets beyond the White Sox complex, all the unimportant Ripkens have been run off by the Orioles, leaving Cal to chase Lou Gehrig with Baltimore counting out loud for him.
This is the way it should be done. You let old heroes be heroes until they cannot. Fisk is still the biggest hero the Sox have.
Instead, Fisk is bullied into camp by Reinsdorf for no good reason other than that Reinsdorf can. The privileges of ownership are so diminished these days that you take your shot at targets of opportunity, Fisk being large and defenseless. The man wants to play 25 more games to authenticate the obvious, which is that he is the catcher of his generation.
So Fisk is not the warmest of human beings, Reinsdorf is not the most beloved of owners. What Fisk does not deserve is to be belittled by clerks.
You wonder, when the day comes for Fisk to catch his record game, if anyone but he will notice, or if the Sox will exploit the occasion as it deserves. But that is all later, as is the fate of this Sox collection, many important parts of which come with their own X-rays.
After a night of raging weather, the day of the first spring game dawns clear and warm and full of promise. Answers to all the questions are there for anyone daring to look for them on March 4.
You are sure that any game that starts with Guido Salmacci singing the national anthem must be full of clues.
Does Ozzie Guillen have a leg to stand on? His right knee is color-coordinated with a significant brace, but he takes his first ground ball with familiar grace and starts what should be a double play. As familiarly, Frank Thomas botches Steve Sax’s low relay. You conclude that Ozzie will be fine, it is the rest of the infield that needs fielding rehab.
Is there an entire right-fielder somewhere on the Sox roster? Ellis Burks, new and precariously fragile, manages not only to provide an encouraging yes to that question by not re-injuring his back but by knocking a three-run homer into the wind, scoring ahead of him the ham-handed Thomas and the re-hipped poster creature, Bo Jackson.
Jackson has himself driven in the obviously braced Guillen, thereby scoring a run for several divisions of the American plastics industry.
Do the Sox have even one other dependable starting pitcher after Jack McDowell? The once and Canadian Dave Stieb waits two whole pitches before giving up his first hit as one of the good guys in black, but is otherwise accurate if not overpowering. This could work.
Is there a bullpen to count on? Not, alas, by name or fame. All that is reaffirmed on this day is that no hole is too deep for Bobby Thigpen to dig nor any lead too large for him to lose.
The Sox manage not to win after leading a largely unfamiliar Pittsburgh team by six and then four runs.
But it is baseball and there’s more to like than not. Except for the needless nettling of Fisk, of course.
